


Entered From the Sun

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hound of the Baskerville, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to stop himself, Mycroft curled his hand around the back of Lestrade's neck before he sought out his mouth, kissing Lestrade with everything in him, desperate to find a way through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entered From the Sun

 

FEBRUARY - MARCH 2011

Grateful for the diplomatic plates on Mycroft's four-wheel drive, which enabled him to speed with impunity, Lestrade would have enjoyed his drive to Heathrow but for Annie and Len's distress.

"What if we miss the flight to Sydney?" she said fretfully from the rear, where she sat clutching her husband's hand.

"We won't," promised Lestrade.

"Will we see Mycroft before we have to fly out?" asked Len, his face haggard with anxiety.

"He's doing his best to get here. But if he can't, you know he'll find time to fly out to Australia at the first opportunity."

"We know," said Annie sturdily. "We're putting you to so much bother. And we've only been back from holiday two weeks."

"It's hardly your fault a drunk driver ran into your sister's car. It's just lucky the kids weren't with her," said Lestrade.

"And what's to become of them?" said Annie. "The oldest barely twelve. Becky's reared all four with no help from anyone. We could be out there for months, looking after them until she's recovered."

"We'll do what has to be done," said Len sturdily, as if the thought of leaving England - Mycroft - wasn't breaking his heart.

Lestrade pulled up outside the main entrance to Terminal Five - yet another advantage to diplomatic plates. An airport official beat the security guard to the side of the Range Rover.

"DI Lestrade? Hannah Walters. Mr Holmes asked me to facilitate matters until he arrived. If you'll come this way. Douglas will check in your luggage."

They were escorted through the frenetic bustle of the terminal into an oasis of calm. The small, comfortable room had only one occupant, the over-bright lighting accentuating every mark of fatigue on Mycroft's face. As Hannah Walters tactfully withdrew Annie flung herself at him, hugging him tight.

"Thank you, lovie. Len would have been beside himself if we hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. But you shouldn't have."

"I'm only sorry I can't accompany you," he said, hugging her back, before clasping Len's shoulder. "A Peter McBride will fly out with you and will remain at your disposal for as long as you need him. Call on him, as you would on me. I've just spoken to Becky's surgeon. The first surgery went better than expected..."

Ravenous, because he hadn't eaten for over twelve hours, Lestrade made himself comfortable on a leather Chesterfield and began to make inroads on the daintily cut sandwiches. As he munched, he watched Mycroft comfort the two people who had loved him since he was eleven years old.

　

　

"I knew there was a reason I loved you," said Lestrade, when Len and Annie had gone, leaving a pensive looking Mycroft behind. "Just how much difficulty was involved in getting you here in time?"

Mycroft gave a dismissive shrug and poured himself some coffee because there was no fresh tea.

"That bad," recognised Lestrade. "Here, eat. I presume you won't be coming home with me?"

"I wish I could," said Mycroft in a heartfelt tone as he sank beside Lestrade, so close that they shared body warmth. "Thank you for organising the flights and looking after Len and Annie."

"Don't be daft. You're going to miss them," added Lestrade, tiptoeing around the tricky subject of Mycroft's emotional ties.

"Yes," conceded Mycroft, studying the floor. His mouth turned down, he wore that glum, clown's face he sometimes used to disguise emotional turmoil.

Lestrade tucked an arm around him. "I vote Moneypenny clears your diary as soon as she can, so we can have a couple of weeks out there."

Mycroft grimaced. "That could be problematic. There are various difficulties."

"Moriarty?"

"He's certainly amongst them." Mycroft looked resigned when there was a knock on the door, followed by Fatima saying,

"Sorry, sir. It's time." She disappeared as abruptly as she had appeared.

"You have to leave so soon? Be careful. Text when you can. Your initial will do." His expression fierce to hide a sudden rush of emotion, Lestrade kissed the side of Mycroft's mouth.

Mycroft nodded and headed out the room without speaking, only to turn at the door and return to where Lestrade was getting to his feet. He wrapped his arms around Lestrade, hugging him tight, his face buried in the curve of Lestrade's neck.

"I love you. I'm in the UK. Just not at home. Perfectly safe. Make sure you are," Mycroft commanded, before he wrenched himself away and hurried out of the room.

Lestrade remained where he was, grinning at nothing in particular. The domestication of a Holmes was a slow business, but he thought they were getting there.

oOo

　

Without Annie and Len to ensure the smooth running of their lives, a certain amount of adjustment was required if they wanted to find food in the kitchen and clean clothes to wear. His own workload easing to reasonable proportions, Lestrade briskly set to work, resigned to the fact Mycroft would probably be working for most of the weekend.

He set up the ironing board in the family room, stuck on Plant and Page's 'No Quarter' DVD and began to sing along as he worked his way down the stack of Mycroft's newly washed shirts. He took far more care of them than he did of his own, but even so they didn't have the crisp perfection they'd enjoyed when Len cared for them. He was bopping along to 'Wah Wah' when a gentle cough made him spin round.

"Brilliant! I thought you'd be busy all weekend!" exclaimed Lestrade, switching off the television.

"I should be. Instead of which I've delegated and ruined various peoples weekend plans," said Mycroft without any sign of remorse.

"Attaboy!"

"Your air guitar seems to be improving."

Lestrade grinned, gave him the finger and picked up the iron before the ironing board cover could become too singed.

"What are you doing?"

"Ironing shirts."

"I can see that. But those are my shirts."

"Ten out of ten for observation. Len's not here and laundry was starting to breed in corners."

"But you shouldn't have to do my laundry," protested Mycroft.

Exercising heroic self-control, Lestrade refrained from making the obvious comment.

"I could do it. If you showed me," Mycroft added realistically.

"In all the copious spare time you've been enjoying, no doubt. Chill. I find ironing quite relaxing. But if you felt like changing the bed and vacuuming..."

This was not how Mycroft had envisaged them spending a rare day off together, but he nodded and went off to see to it. The mess in his dressing room surprised even him; he spent some time tidying up and organising which suits and ties needed to go to the cleaners.

"Feel like coming shopping with me?" Lestrade asked, when Mycroft returned to the family room, having changed into more casual clothing.

"Borough Market, followed by lunch there?"

"Well, I'd been thinking of Sainsbury's, but you've talked me into it. We could check out Camden Market after."

"You're spoiling me."

"I know. I'm like that," said Lestrade. "Besides, the steam museum at Brent is closed today."

　

　

That evening, wearing nothing but a pair of soft, worn jeans and a winsome smile, Lestrade sat cross-legged on the carpet, waiting in vain as Mycroft stared into the middle distance, oblivious to their half-finished game of backgammon. With most people that would be a sign of vacant possession, with Mycroft it was an indication he was plotting intricate schemes - sometimes in defence of the realm, sometimes just something which would annoy Sherlock.

The evening should have been perfect, Lestrade mused with resigned affection. He propped his elbow on the coffee table and began to eat grapes from the bunch left on the cheese board. Time together, snug in the warm, talking lazily over their meal. He toyed idly with the cup holding the dice. To add insult to injury, despite giving only a quarter of his attention to the game, Mycroft was still three games up in their match, which was why he was sitting here half-naked. Though he doubted if strip-backgammon was in the rule book. He must have been barmy agreeing to play a game of strategy against a mind like Mycroft's...

Lestrade jumped at the light touch to his bare shoulder.

"I didn't intend to startle you," said Mycroft, stroking the nape of Lestrade's neck with the side of his thumb. "I hope I didn't interrupt an important line of thought?"

"Unlike you, I don't have many of them. I was just feeling smug about how lucky I am. We are. Even when some of us go mental walkabout in the middle of a game."

"Ah. Yes. I'm sorry. I've been poor company tonight."

"You're certainly not cheating the way you usually do," said Lestrade.

Mycroft straightened where he sat. "I do _not_ cheat."

"Mycroft, deliberately turning me on to the point where I have a job remembering my own name _is_ cheating," pointed out Lestrade, amused.

Mycroft relaxed back against the cushions, toeing Lestrade's side with a bare foot. "A tactic to which you wouldn't dream of resorting, of course."

"Oh, I would. It's just that your concentration's better than mine. Did you manage to resolve your problem?"

"What problem?" asked Mycroft, distracted by the expanse of fire-warmed skin at his feet.

"I don't know. Has John signed the Official Secrets Act?" added Lestrade, out of the blue.

"Why? Ah. It's true he probably knows more about some operations than you do. It's inevitable, given that he works with Sherlock. But no, I've never required him to sign that. While it's used within the Service, I've always believed it to be a waste of time. If anyone planned to sell out their country, a signature would hardly stop them."

"Have I signed it?" asked Lestrade curiously.

"Why would you ask that?"

"I signed for this house without knowing it. I just wondered if you'd slid the Official Secrets Act in front of me as well."

Mycroft's eyes flinched. "No. I only made that mistake once. I hoped you understood that." Despite himself, some hurt leaked through.

Lestrade leant forward where he sat on the carpet to prop his forearms on Mycroft's knees. "Of course I do. I didn't mean it like that. I just wondered if you'd done it during our early days and had forgotten. Only if I had - or if I sign it now - maybe you could talk to me more when there's something bothering you."

His face relaxed again, Mycroft rubbed his thumb over Lestrade's right ear. "I want you to be quite clear about this. The _only_ reason I don't confide in you is to ensure your safety. Your integrity is beyond doubt.

"I didn't know you could blush," he added with interest, seeking to lighten the mood.

"Says the most shameless man I know," mocked Lestrade. But his eyes were bright in his heated face because Mycroft never offered meaningless compliments - and his good opinion mattered.

　

As usual, they ended up sharing a dressing room as they got ready for bed. Mycroft paused when he realised Lestrade was wearing a pair of his boxer briefs - and that they suited him far more than the baggy cotton boxers he usually wore. Suited him to a distracting degree.

"What?" said Lestrade, when he realised he was under surveillance.

"I'm just enjoying the sight of you in your underwear."

"Yours, you mean. I meant to ask if I could borrow a pair, only I ran out because I forgot to do my washing last night."

Mycroft was staring at him as if he had grown two heads. "You ran out? For heaven's sake, Gregory, how many pairs do you own?"

"A week's worth."

"Good grief. That settles it. I'm buying you underwear."

"I'll try and look grateful. Sorry about pinching yours."

"Don't be absurd. You're welcome to anything. Besides, they look far better on you than they do me."

"Now you're being absurd," retorted Lestrade. "Though I have to admit, they are comfortable." He twisted, trying to study himself. "They really look all right on me?"

"Take them off," commanded Mycroft, a certain huskiness to his voice.

Lestrade failed miserably in his attempt to look hard-done-by as he tossed them into the laundry basket. "Get me your kind. Oy, where are you off to? I thought you had a quickie in mind?"

"First I want to inspect your supply of socks."

Lestrade's jaw sagged when he realised Mycroft was serious. "You'd rather look at my socks than have sex? And if you so much as hesitate in replying..."

"As if. I'll just buy you socks as well. What have I said to amuse you now?" Mycroft added with resignation.

"Never, in my wildest fantasies, did I expect socks to feature in a conversation about sex."

"You have wild fantasies? Are these anything of which I should be made aware?" asked Mycroft, successfully side-tracked.

"I'm a simple soul," said Lestrade, mildly apologetic. "Though when you're away I've had some pleasant wanks to the image of you in those grey silk pyjamas you wore on the island. You were lounging in the armchair, reading files, with your spectacles perched on the end of your nose, and a don't-fuck-with-me expression. Only in my fantasies I do, of course."

"Does it have to be the grey silk pair?"

Lestrade gave a slow smile. "You don't even need to wear pyjamas," he assured him.

oOo　

Sprawled on the sofa in the family room as he dipped into the collected works of e e cummings, a sound made Mycroft look up to see Lestrade entering the room.

Mycroft's smile of welcome faded and he launched himself to his feet and over to Lestrade, who was struggling to extricate himself from his jacket.

"What happened to you? No, let me see to it." Mycroft eased away the ruined jacket, which was stained with and smelt of diesel.

"Thanks." Lestrade flexed his shoulders with some caution. "I nipped out to buy some fruit for lunch - we've got to stop ordering takeaways, I'm putting on pounds - when I was almost jam-sandwiched between a taxi and some idiot driving a transit. I don't think there's any point sending that jacket to the cleaners," he added ruefully.

"Or your shirt." Mycroft winced as he drew down the cheap shirt to see the scraped and reddened skin beneath. "You should see a doctor."

"It's not that bad. You can stick on some Germoline once I've had a shower. Your shirt feels nice," Lestrade added, plucking at the South Sea Island cotton shirt Mycroft was wearing, the fabric so luxurious it felt like silk.

His unsubtle attempt at providing a distraction never stood a chance.

"Who's handling the investigation?" Mycroft had already fished out his phone and was texting one-handed, displaying considerable dexterity for a man who claimed not to text.

Lestrade snorted. "Get real. As no one was hurt, there isn't one. I didn't catch the number of the taxi and the transit's plates were nicked from a van stolen in Tottenham two weeks ago." He peered down to where Mycroft was unfastening his trousers for him. "You're wasting your time tonight," he said sadly.

Mycroft spared him a speaking look. "Shower first, then soak in the bath. I'll fetch you a drink. Whisky?"

"Cold lager, if there's any in the fridge."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not in living memory. Sod no takeaways. I could murder a Chinese. That shredded duck thing from that posh place of yours. Get lots," Lestrade commanded, showing more signs of life.

As soon as Lestrade went upstairs, Mycroft ordered a check to be made of CCTV from a wide area around the scene of the near accident.

A review of the incident found nothing to suggest it had been anything more than two impatient drivers, too preoccupied to notice Lestrade, who, it had to be admitted, wouldn't have won any awards for road safety but Mycroft upped his security, just in case.

oOo

　

"I've a confession to make," said Mycroft, his arm draped over the edge of the bath he and Lestrade were sharing. Fragrant steam wreathed them both. "I've made another unilateral decision."

More than half-asleep, Lestrade's expression of drowsy contentment changed to one of resignation. "Have I bought another house?"

"It's not that bad. We're flying off to Australia on the 25th. For ten days. Your leave has been approved."

"Have I packed?" asked Lestrade dryly.

Mycroft's air of smug satisfaction deflated. "Not yet. You won't need much beyond shorts and sun screen. I can cancel the arrangements if you don't care for the idea. Only I thought we could spend some time with Len and Annie."

Lestrade slipped his toes between Mycroft's thighs, causing bubbles to bob and sway and Mycroft to suck in his breath.

"I assumed that's why you picked Australia. It's perfect," said Lestrade, after a nicely judged pause, because it didn't do to let Mycroft have everything his own way. "Absolutely bloody perfect. No packing any suits though."

"Gregory..." Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "Very well. But I'm not wearing shorts."

"It'd be a sin to keep those legs covered up. I'll slather you in sun factor 3000 myself. Not open to debate," Lestrade added flatly.

Mycroft gave him a thoughtful look. "You're in a very masterful mood this evening."

Yes, I am, aren't I. An early night?"

Mycroft was already rising from the bubbles, foam sliding down his hardening prick.

oOo

　

Because Mycroft was called back to work the moment their flight from Sydney landed Lestrade took a taxi home alone.

Mycroft called him first thing in the morning, sounding unusually harried. "I wonder if you would do me a favour?"

"Of course," said Lestrade.

Mycroft gave a faint huff of amusement. "You have no sense of self-preservation, do you. I'd like you to go to Grimpen Village, in Devon. Sherlock and John are there and I think it likely they will need your intervention - or at least you to liaise with the local police on their behalf."

"Oh, joy. No problem," Lestrade added immediately. "You've cleared it with the Yard?"

"I used the usual excuse of secondment. Take your gun. As a precaution only, but I would prefer you to be armed. Charles is on his way to take you to the heliport. He'll give you a full briefing as he flies you down there."

"Right. Just how dangerous is this likely to be - for Sherlock, I mean?"

"Not at all, I hope, but with Sherlock involved I prefer to be safe than sorry. And now I'm resorting to cliches," Mycroft recognised with disgust. "Sherlock broke into Baskervillle high-security research establishment, using my ID."

"And John?"

"At his shoulder, as always. And to think I allowed myself to hope he might be a moderating influence."

Lestrade frowned into the distance as he tried to interpret what was really bothering Mycroft. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Just busy on a problem that's proving more taxing that I anticipated. This should just be a formality. Nevertheless, take care. I'm sorry, I have to go. Keep safe."

Mycroft stared at the screen of his phone, took a deep breath and returned to Moriarty's unsavoury company.

　

　

　

Institutions like Baskerville made Lestrade uncomfortably aware of the less acceptable side of Mycroft's sphere of influence - the one he preferred not to think about. Duly briefed by Charles, who flew him to Devon, he took the keys of the hire car waiting for him and drove to Grimpen Village. Despite himself, he was intrigued by the story of the hound from hell that he'd seen on TV. There again, he was a sucker for Hammer Horror films, particularly when you could see the wires on the vampire bats.

Any hopes of clean Devonshire air, never mind a cream tea or two, were finally banished in Dewer's Hollow, as he fired at fuck knew what. And of course Sherlock didn't deign to explain. Just when Lestrade had been ready to kick the bastard's bollocks clear up to his tonsils, Sherlock showed the side Lestrade had always known was there as he talked Henry Knight down from a complete meltdown while they were still in the Hollow.

Despite his thumping headache, that sign of humanity mellowed Lestrade to the point where he took charge until the local force arrived.

The night was such a confusion of images that Lestrade was never quite certain he had sorted out the real from hallucinations. But the dog was dead, as was that bloke who'd run into the minefield. Fortunately, he didn't have to wade through that, his only task was to ensure Sherlock and John were kept out of it.

He had expected to be up all night, and to have a fight on his hand with the local force but the ease with which they accepted his authority, and the way it was taken for granted that the investigation would be handled elsewhere, made him glad he didn't work anywhere near Baskerville. Though, of course, here he was, doing just what Mycroft wanted...

Too tired to decide how he felt about that, he headed back to Grimpen Village. Thanks to the key he'd had the foresight to blackmail out of their dog-loving inn-keeper, he was able to let himself in to the Cross Keys inn. Despite the comfortable bed, he slept poorly, partly because of nightmares, partly because it was too damn quiet in the country.

Heavy-eyed, Lestrade left the inn before Sherlock and John were up, having left a note for them. He drove to Exeter mainline station and caught the first train to London. Anything was better than that bloody helicopter...

He slept most of the way, feeling distinctly more human as he walked home, swinging his overnight bag in one hand. He reported in to Balasha, heard with resignation that Mycroft had enjoyed even less sleep than he had thanks to an exhausting work schedule, and headed off to the Yard for a bit of normality.

　

　

Secure in the knowledge that Gregory was back in London, safely in his office, up to his eyes in paperwork, Mycroft sat in the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting, coldly and completely furious at MI5's inefficiency. After nearly three months, they had finally realised that eight high-ranking individuals in the armed services, government and Civil Service had lost family members to deaths thought to be accidental. They only stirred into action when the wife of the Cabinet Secretary drowned while trying to rescue the family dog from a rain-swollen river, a fact which wouldn't have been noteworthy but for the fact the dog was known to be terrified of water and refused to go anywhere near it. Suddenly, Gregory's near miss with that transit van seemed a lot less accidental...

Once the meeting was over, Mycroft fired the head of MI5, then called his inner team together. As yet none of the seventeen suspects had been cleared and six of them were in this room, seven, if he included David, which logic said he should.

"Eight accidents?" There was an edge to Mycroft's quiet voice which straightened several spines. Grimly aware of what he must do, what he had been trying to avoid for some time, Mycroft's expression was more forbidding than he realised. "Your thoughts?"

"Every investigation concluded death was attributable to an accident. MI5 found nothing to contradict that," said David.

"Two died in car crashes - no evidence of tampering with the car, or drugs in the bodies. A five year old drowned in his grandfather's fishpond. Falling scaffolding accounted for Khan's eldest son, Regis went into anaphylactic shock, one accidental overdose and two bike accidents," said Fatima, impatiently ticking each case off with her fingers.

"None of those holding key posts have worked with their former efficiency, if at all," added Jane. "I don't know how it was done, but these were executions, not accidents."

"Agreed. While there hasn't been much time to collect information, we've already established that there have been three similar incidents in France, two in Germany and one in Holland. Obviously there may be more," said Balasha.

Mycroft abruptly wished for a cigarette. "Has Moriarty been released?"

"Just before you called this meeting," said Fatima. "Unfortunately - "

"They lost him?"

"Yes, sir," said Balasha. "We had to rely on MI5 for manpower. We just don't have enough staff."

Mycroft's chilly gaze pinned her to the spot. "You really think this is a good moment to bring up the subject of staffing?" He was just grateful that MI5 had lived down to his expectations. It would have been embarrassing if he'd had to arrange Moriarty's escape himself.

"Perhaps your brother could give us an in with Moriarty," suggested Jane.

"Nonsense," snorted Fatima. "Moriarty may have some kind of man-crush, gay or otherwise on your brother, but equally, it could be a double bluff. It's you, sir, that Moriarty's really after. It must be. I mean, why would he focus on an amateur detective, however talented, when he knows you're Sherlock's brother?"

"If you're Moriarty's real target - and I agree with Fatima it must be you - then what does he want? I'm increasing your security," said Balasha.

"Do that, of course," said David. "But I'm not convinced Moriarty is doing anything but making mischief - to see what reaction he elicits. There's no indication he's running the crime wave sweeping through Europe. If he's more interested in making mischief than money then whoever is the ultimate boss, if there is one, might decide to get rid of him."

"Or the disruption Moriarty's causing might have been the intention all along," pointed out Mycroft.

"There's nothing to indicate Moriarty's behind those accidents," said Fatima.

"There isn't anything to show he isn't either," pointed out Jane.

Abruptly Mycroft had had enough. "This is achieving nothing. Find me evidence."

A glance meant Balasha stayed behind as the last person trouped out.

"Before I leave tonight, I need to see various people," said Mycroft.

　

　

　

Before Mycroft left to see Dr Bond, he found time to speak with their two top interrogators to ascertain the tells which could betray even the most skilled liar. Micro-movements of the face were beyond even his control but Bond would know which muscles relaxants would be most effective at relaxing facial muscles. Or perhaps an injection.

It wasn't as if he would need the effect for long, he thought bleakly, dreading what was to come.

Every nerve on edge, despite his second dose of muscle relaxants, Mycroft arrived at Guardian House only when he was certain Lestrade was home. He went through their bedroom into Lestrade's dressing room in time to see Lestrade pulling off his boxer-briefs, wearing only a crumpled, unbuttoned shirt. He looked rumpled and warm, all smiling mouth and come-to-bed eyes and Mycroft wanted him with an intensity so strong that he could barely remember his own name, let alone what he must do.

"Excellent timing," said Lestrade, making no attempt to disguise his pleasure. His prick was hardening as he slowly padded over to where Mycroft stood, frozen in the doorway, unable to think of anything except this would be the last time he saw Gregory smile at him in just that way. The last time they touched, spoke...

Unable to stop himself, Mycroft curled his hand around the back of Lestrade's neck before he sought out his mouth, kissing Lestrade with everything in him, desperate to find a way through this.

Lestrade hummed his approval into Mycroft's mouth, his hands busy with Mycroft's complicated fastenings.

As Lestrade's hand brushed his cock, Mycroft abruptly wrenched free.

"Wait," he said, more breathless than he had anticipated. "We need a condom."

Aroused, it took Lestrade a moment longer than usual to process. "We don't use them unless we're fucking, and even then we usually don't bother. Let's get you naked."

"From now on we'll need to use a condom every time we have sex," said Mycroft with blunt deliberation. Emotions tightly battened down, he willed Lestrade to believe him.

Lestrade slowed to a stop, blinked, then searched his face as if willing to find some evidence to contradict what he'd just been told.

Mycroft watched understanding dawn, before the full implication sank home. Gregory put a hand to his face, as if trying to brush away something. Disbelief overtook warmth, followed swiftly by a pain Gregory didn't know how to disguise. Almost worse of all was the moment when Gregory recognised that he was being told the truth, his mouth tightening, as it did when he closed down his emotions.

　

　

　

Stranded in the middle of a room that no longer seemed familiar, Lestrade couldn't tell if Mycroft was speaking again, deafened by the thump of his blood in his ears, as if he was standing at the bottom of a well. He searched the familiar, much-loved face but saw nothing beyond a resigned weariness that he was being so dense. It was that, more than anything, which made him realise it must be true. Mycroft had been having an affair, had been having sex with someone else. Had lied to him.

It was happening all over again, only this time it was much, much worse.

The defences which had seen Lestrade through a difficult childhood snapped up into place, enabling him to get through the next few minutes. Without drama, he turned away from Mycroft and began to dress with more deliberation than usual, as if he needed to concentrate on the everyday task. As he shrugged into the jacket he had been wearing earlier that day, he said:

"I'll be back Saturday morning for my things. Be elsewhere." His voice was so devoid of emotion it was almost unrecognisable.

"If you think that's necessary." The disillusioned hurt on Gregory's face as his guard slipped was almost Mycroft's undoing.

He remained frozen in place as Lestrade left first the room, then the house, the sound of the front door closing echoing up from the hall.

It was only then that the enormity of what he had done sank home like a shard of glass to his heart.

His hands icy, and less steady than he would have liked, Mycroft glanced around, as if trying to remember what he should do next.

Despite the warmth of the room he began to shiver. Shock, he recognised. Which was odd, because he at least had known exactly what was going on.

He knew beyond doubt Gregory loved him. Just as he knew the one thing that would drive Gregory from him. After years of misery in a marriage of serial infidelities on the part of his wife, Gregory had made it plain that he would never live like that again. But he hadn't let himself think about how much it would hurt Gregory.

Mycroft swallowed with determination, for a moment afraid he would vomit.

He belatedly began to reorder his unfastened clothing, trying not to remember the feel of Gregory's mouth, the brush of his hands, and the way Gregory had smiled when he had come into the room, as if his arrival had completed his day.

Mycroft closed his eyes. Something tearing deep inside, he relived the memory of Gregory's stricken expression.

In danger of hyper-ventilating, he forced himself to straighten, to inhale, then exhale, concentrating on those two simple tasks until he no longer had to think about the process of dragging air into his lungs and expelling it again. He hadn't had a panic attack since he was fifteen and this was no time to start.

　

　

Orphaned at the age of six, the rest of Lestrade's childhood had been one upheaval after the next; from Care Home to foster home and back to another Care Home.

All he had ever wanted was the warmth and security of a family: to belong, to know that strongest of connections with another human being.

And he had. Thought he had.

He should have had the sense to be wary with Mycroft, should have -

Hands punched deep in the pockets of his overcoat, Lestrade cut the thought dead. That way lay madness.

He increased his stride, as if that way he could avoid thinking. But he'd had practice at this and slowly he managed to do what he had done to survive all the lonely years of his past and concentrated on the here and now, living in the moment. No looking back.

First he needed a room for the night. Tomorrow he would call the Yard and book some emergency time off before making a start on finding somewhere permanent to live. South London could be cheaper, but transport wasn't as reliable. It would have to be north London and some way out for him to be able to afford it until he'd could sell the flat in West Ken. He wouldn't live there again, not with all the memories of the time he and Mycroft had been happy there. He get his solicitor to organise the sale. He didn't want to have to deal with Fatima. With any of Mycroft's people.

One thought leading to another, he turned, studying the near empty street. There was no surveillance that he could spot. If Mycroft had taken away his low-level security detail... Further proof that this wasn't some nightmare, he accepted dully.

He would hire a transit van for Saturday to get all the paperwork out of his office at home - Mycroft's home.

Mycroft...

He picked up his speed even more, as if there could be any hope of out-pacing his thoughts.

Lestrade had wandered into Pimlico before he admitted he had no idea where he was going. Come to that, he only had the clothes he was wearing. Fortunately his wallet was in the jacket he'd pulled on, a lucky break because he'd been in no state to think of that when he'd walked out.

He stopped dead as the realisation hit him.

It was over.

And he wasn't going to throw up, or get drunk, or -

He certainly wasn't going to break down.

Planning, that was the way through this, he thought feverishly.

The hotel he stayed in was over-priced with too-thin walls, the rhythmic speak of bed springs in the adjoining room like salt on a raw wound.

Early the next morning he rang Detective Chief Superintendent Richardson to ask for a weeks' leave, due to a family emergency. He would get away with the lie because Richardson had no interest in the lives of those under his command unless they did something to threaten his position.

After buying enough clothes to keep him going until Saturday, he started to visit letting agencies. At least his status as a Detective Inspector worked to his advantage for once.

oOo

　

Mycroft had assumed that the worst part would be lying to Lestrade and watching the trust drain from him. He hadn't known the half of it. The worst part was the fact he had absolutely no idea where Gregory had gone, if he was safe, how unhappy he might be.

The demands of Gregory's career and the break-up of his marriage meant he had no close friends. No one he could turn to for comfort. Of course, nor did he, but then he hardly deserved it.

Besides, he'd had Gregory, and Gregory had turned to him.

He had stopped all surveillance the day Gregory left. Because of the mole in his section he dared not check up on Gregory. Just as he must sever all ties, it was equally important that no one should realise what this separation was costing him.

But in all his planning he hadn't given a thought to where, or how, Gregory would live. What -

Mycroft stopped the thought in its tracks.

He couldn't afford this self-indulgence. There must be nothing to make anyone watching him suspect that he had any further emotional investment in Gregory Lestrade.

Over the years he had assumed many roles, but this was the hardest yet.

oOo

　

By Friday Lestrade had moved into a spacious one-bedroom attic flat in an Edwardian house in Bounds Green. On the Piccadilly Line, it took less than forty minutes to get to his office; more to the point, it was nowhere near anywhere he and Mycroft had explored.

To Lestrade's relief, Mycroft wasn't at Guardian House when he went back for his things on Saturday. He cleared everything out of his office, realising all the paperwork would need to be shredded; his flat wasn't secure, and he could hardly take it to the Yard because he wasn't supposed to have any of it. Apart from all the work related items, he took only the clothes that didn't remind him too sharply of Mycroft.

His face set, teeth close to being bared, he stuffed clothes and toiletries in the black plastic sacks he'd remembered to bring with him. He seemed to have spent half his life folding up his life into plastic sacks, he thought bleakly, and nothing had changed.

It took several journeys to ferry the bags down to the van. He looked at the untidy heap of his possessions, tempted to dump the lot in the road.

It must say something about him that he didn't possess whatever it took to keep someone happy.

That realisation hurt so much that it stopped him in his tracks, and it was a minute or so before he was able to get back to work.

The last bag loaded, he went back into the house and glanced around the hall one last time, before suddenly racing up stairs to retrieve one last thing.

He'd leave everything else. There was no point getting weighed down with stuff. Anyway, none of it mattered. The only thing that had mattered was -

Nothing fucking well mattered any more.

His face set against the grief that felt as if it was ripping him apart, Lestrade dropped his bunch of keys into the bowl on the chest and left the house for the last time. He didn't look back as he drove off.

　

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line in an Emily Dickinson poem


End file.
